


among all the nights of my long night

by mikkey_bones



Category: Doctrine of Labyrinths - Sarah Monette
Genre: Gardens & Gardening, Gen, Lucid Dreaming, Magic, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 22:06:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5472338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikkey_bones/pseuds/mikkey_bones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Felix explores the gardens. Thamuris is often there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	among all the nights of my long night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [allegoriest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allegoriest/gifts).



> Title & epigraph from Jorge Luis Borges, ["To the Nightingale"](http://georgebrazillerblog.blogspot.com/2009/04/poetry-week-two-day-fourfive-jorge-luis.html)

_Perhaps I never heard you, but my life_  
_is bound up with your life, inseparably._  
_The symbol for you is the wandering spirit_  
_in a book of enigmas._

*

At night I slip into the gardens and forget that I am in a labyrinth full of madmen and ghosts. There are ghosts in the garden too, shadows of red-haired people, but they never look at me and I can never move fast enough to catch them.

It does not matter that I cannot catch them, because when I walk, the lush, soft grass is soothing against my bare feet. The flowers smell sweet and take away the scents of lye and madness and death.

I find a stand of trees with trunks no bigger than my arm and white flowers sprouting from interminable twisted branches.

I find a miniature landscape made of gravel and rocks and carefully twisted rosebushes.

I find a pond full of koi, who regard me, hopeful that I will drop them some scraps, as I cross it on tiptoe, using stepping stones.

When I wake in the morning I smell flowers. The scent lingers in the air for half a second, before it is replaced by the stink of St. Crellifer's.

*

As I walked in the Gardens of Nephele alone, the morning of the day before Mildmay and I would leave, I felt the dream-structure of the Khloïdanikos overlaid on the landscape like a translucent shadow. I looked to my left—a stream would be here. To my right—another grove of perseid trees. And for a few moments, lost in my thoughts, I was not sure whether the Khloïdanikos was a copy of the Gardens, or the Gardens were a copy of the dream.

*

The Thamuris that I met in the Khloïdanikos was a far cry from the Thamuris that I had met first in Mildmay's room, consumptive and wretched, practically drenched with laudanum, responsible for my brother's near death. Here, he was sharp and lively, and met me at my own intellectual level. And both of us were happy for the other's presence, because the Khloïdanikos was an amazing puzzle, and neither of us could have gotten very far by studying it alone.

Spurred on by Thamuris's original observation about the strange sky over the gardens, we spent long hours on our backs, cushioned by soft grass, as we looked up at the sky. The stars never moved. On other days, we walked. The gardens seemed to stretch out endlessly in all directions, no matter how far we went, and that was another mystery.

We did not often run out of things to say. His scholarly background and mine were so different that we first had to find a common vocabulary that would allow the two of us to discuss the phenomena we were observing. And then—and this was the part that interested me, that was getting me through the days and nights in Julip as I waited for Mehitabel and Mildmay to return with Gideon Thraxios—we tried to use that vocabulary, that understanding, to figure out what the Khloïdanikos really was.

*

Thamuris and I sat at the end of a small pier that jutted out over the large, green pond in the Khloïdanikos, dangling bare feet over the water and watching the koi drift lazily back and forth in the water. The paper lanterns hanging over our heads made the fish sparkle gold, orange, deep brown. I was particularly fond of one that was mottled white and red, in a pattern that reminded me of a lace shawl over red hair.

“I wonder,” Thamuris began. His feet, as he kicked them lazily back and forth, made ghostly white reflections on the glassy surface of the water. “Are the fish more like the plants, or the people?”

I raised my eyebrows. “That is to say...”

“The people, ah, figures, that we see in the Khloïdanikos do not respond to our presence. We can see them, but they're intangible. On the other hand, the plants are solid to our touch. They respond. We've picked blades of grass, a flower—”

“A single flower.” And we had both felt awful afterward, like our action had somehow violated the integrity of the gardens (though there had been no lasting physical consequence).

“—and it didn't disappear in your hand,” Thamuris concluded, acknowledging my interruption with a nod but nothing else. “So are the fish—”

“Tangible, like plants, or intangible, like people?” I finished for him, sitting up with interest now that I knew the direction of his thoughts. The koi continued swimming in their lazy circles; I leaned forward with my elbows on my knees, balancing precariously over the water so I could get a closer look at them.

“Exactly,” Thamuris replied, and from the corner of my eye I could see him leaning down to look more closely as well.

“I can't decide which would be more complex,” I mused. The white and orange lace-patterned fish was swimming lazily under my foot. “There's only one way to find out.” And boldly, rather foolishly, I placed both hands on the pier on either side of me, to hold my weight as I lowered myself down and tried to touch the water.

Thamuris shifted towards me, and though I could not see his face I detected a note of amusement in his voice when he said, “Excellent. You might enable me to test something else I've been wondering about.”

“And what's that?” I was almost to the water. The bridge was higher than I expected.

“Whether a sudden shock in received in the Khloïdanikos, such as that induced by cold water, and the ensuing loss of concentration, will break the dream and wake the sleeper.”

The mischief in his voice was clear and, suddenly struck by the hilarity of the situation, let out a brief and breathless laugh. In that instance I finally lost my balance and tumbled into the pond.

I didn't feel the water—I simply jolted awake on my bed in the Duelling Hares in Julip, my hands straight out in front of me, gasping for breath.

Thamuris later told me that yes, the fish could indeed sense our presence and respond to us. _Especially_ when darting out of the way to avoid overly curious wizards tumbling down on top of them.

*

Sometimes when I came into the gardens Thamuris was not there. I always worried, but he often appeared several minutes later, talking about how the Celebrants had come to visit him or take him outside for a while. But today seemed different. I had been in the dream for a long time and he had not yet appeared.

I decided not to let my worry get the best of me and instead set off from our usual meeting place. Now that I was working with Thamuris I rarely got time in the Gardens to myself. It was not a bad thing; I enjoyed his company. But lately I had not been in the best mood, being wracked by guilt and shame over what I had done to Mildmay, over the shattered perseid tree that was barely clinging to life.

 _Perhaps that is why Thamuris is not here today_ , some horrible, insinuating voice said inside my head. It sounded a lot like Malkar in a playful mood. _Perhaps you drove him away, too_.

No. I knew that wasn't true. Thamuris was not that kind of man, and I liked to think, he understood this situation in some strange way. Because he was the one, after all, who had set the huphantike in place, who had narrowed down all the possible paths for Mildmay's future into a few symbols.

The gorgon, the wheel, the dead tree—and there it was, ahead of me. Here, unlike in life, my feet found the way to my destination without my guidance. As before, there are still a few small, struggling green buds coming up from the blackened branches. There is still hope, but for what, I don't know.

I stand there for a while, half waiting for Thamuris, half thinking about all the things that I do not allow myself to think about in waking life. And then I bring myself out of the trance and into a true sleep.

*

The bees, Malkar's rubies, looked almost harmless. In the double vision afforded by my construction, they were simultaneously a hive on the oak tree and a leather wash bag at its base, simultaneously drowsy, golden bees and greasy, smoke-stained rubies. One of them landed on my finger for a moment and I resisted the convulsive urge to shake it off.

Thamuris waited behind me, his waxen face showing apprehension, and beneath that, perhaps, annoyance. Because I had a tendency to barrel right through his questions and I had done it once again today, as I was bringing these ill-omened gems into the dream construct that was, at this point, more his than mine.

But he hadn't asked before, I told myself. He had seemed as eager as I was to carry out this thaumaturgical experiment. If he had had forebodings, he should have voiced them sooner, before it was too late. Because I was not taking these rubies back with me.

I watched the bees in their lazy flight for a few more moments, and then turned back to him.

*

Horn Gate is closed, bound shut by brambles that I do not wish to touch. I imagine the brambles are of my own making. I do not know what lies on the other side. It is better that way. It is better without me.

*

Thamuris was dying and faster now that the Khloïdanikos was becoming overgrown, and if I yet owed something to anyone in Troia, it was him, not Diokletian. I thought of this as I climbed over the brambles that had twined themselves around the oak tree, forming a cage to protect the rubies, the bees.

Perhaps it was the pain of my scratched, shredded palms, but the thick, woody vines felt almost warm under my touch and I remembered what Diokletian had told me earlier. _When you hack at them they bleed, they scream_ , Diokletian had said. I did not want to know what these “brambles” were made of, what they represented—I had several guesses and none were pleasant. I imagined Thamuris and Diokletian trying to hack at the brambles together, combat this invasion that was entirely my fault, and I felt a stab of guilt that had nothing and everything to do with the thorn that had just pierced the flesh between my forefinger and thumb. In spite of myself, I cursed.

“Are you alright?” Thamuris asked, for all that he was being cold towards me.

I gritted my teeth and continued worming my way through the brambles. “I'm fine.” It was a meaningless question and a meaningless answer. Neither of us were “fine.” Thamuris was wan and yellowed and standing up by the sheer force of his will. I was… I was realizing how horribly, how fundamentally I had wronged him and wronged this dream, but I was also trying to fix things, for better or for worse. “I'm almost there.” I could see the hive. Thamuris waited.

*

I dream of the gardens—the Gardens of Nephele, and not the Khloïdanikos, and when I see the Omphalos, small and dilapidated and choked with vines, I know that I am merely dreaming. I walk a ways and then sit on a bench. I do not know what I am waiting for until it appears—a group of red-haired Celebrants, talking and laughing about nothing in particular, enjoying the warm day and the bright sunshine that brings the gardens to vibrant life.

Thamuris is among them, looking more carefree than I have ever seen him. He has two books under his arm, his hair is bound back in a gorgeous, complex plait, and though he does not join in the banter he has a small but unmistakable smile in his face. His complexion is normal, and his cheeks and eyes are not hollowed from consumption. He doesn't notice me, and I know with implacable dream logic that to him, I am invisible. With the same logic, I know that this dream is a wish, but I'm not sure whose. I do not know whether it is my wish… or his.

*

“You're here!” Thamuris said, straightening up on his bench and then slowly standing as I walked towards him. I could see the pallor of his face and the high color in his cheeks, but I could also see the way his expression lit up when he saw me draw near to him, and I answered his happiness with a smile of my own.

“I am.” It was difficult to keep track of how long I had been away, considering how much had happened, but I was here now. And would likely be here more regularly, considering the relative peace and quiet (I still considered it a blessing, and not yet monotony) of life on Grimglass. “How are you?”

Thamuris nodded, and for a moment I thought that was the only answer to my question that I would receive. Then he said, “I'm glad you came back. I always...” And then he shifted his weight a little awkwardly from side to side, looking down at the verdant grass beneath him. I was reminded for neither the first nor the last time that he was several years younger than I. “I always wonder what you've been doing. I imagine you're having all kinds of adventures.”

I looked at him and I considered how stifled he must feel in his room at the Gardens of Nephele, with only Khrysogonos and Diokletian for company. And I thought about how he had wanted me for a friend—genuinely—and how he had not believed me when I said I was a monster. How he had forgiven me even when I had shown him what I inevitably did to the people who called me a friend. I thought about how there are times when silence, caution, circumspection is best, but there are also times to _give_. To be open.

I moved over next to him and sat down on the bench; he followed a moment later. “I'm no storyteller.” But I had learned from the best, from my brother. “But if you want, I can attempt to sketch out everything that's happened. To me and to Mildmay.”

I did not miss the way that Thamuris's eyes lit up eagerly at the mention of Mildmay, and I began to realize that this offer, as strange and difficult as it seemed to me, had been the right one to make. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, that would be… I would very much like to hear it.”

“This might take a few days,” I said dryly. If I began from the time that we had left the Mirador… there was quite a lot to cover. “And you might take back your assertion that I am not a monster.”

Thamuris considered that, then shook his head. “You're here. And I'm sure you won't hesitate to gloss over anything that I'd find particularly upsetting.”

I blinked at him, thrown off guard by the evenness of his tone, but his golden eyes were smiling. “Well,” I said. “As long as we're both aware of that.”

“Then tell me!” Thamuris said, and I caught a flash of the eagerness, the impatience, that must have marked him at the height of his powers and had not yet been dulled by laudanum or tempered by maturity.

I smiled. And I did.

**Author's Note:**

> In the Sybilline, Thamuris was represented to Felix by the nightingale, which first made me think of Keats's ["Ode to a Nightingale"](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/173744): "Darkling I listen; and, for many a time/ I have been half in love with easeful Death." But the melancholy of Keats didn't quite fit with what I was trying to do, so I looked up more poems with nightingales--there are quite a few--and found Borges. The format of this fic was also inspired by Wallace Stevens's ["Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird."](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/174503)
> 
> Happy Yuletide; I hope you enjoyed!


End file.
